Above All Towers Strong And High
by Tigerlily Sackville-Baggins
Summary: COMPLETE! A semi lost chapter of Frodo's experiences in Cirith Ungol.


Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or anything associated with it, though it owns me. 

  
  


A/N: Occasionally I jump from Frodo's POV to Sam's POV. Just a warning.

Enjoy!

  
  


*all inner thoughts are in ( )*

  
  


Above All Towers Strong And High-Part One

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Darkness set upon the tower, and two pairs of deep red eyes awoke. The Watchers stood guard over Cirith Ungol, stronghold of the dreaded Nazgul, who did not abide there currently. All who dwelt there now was 100 or so rag tag orcs, brutal, angry, and bitter. The leaders had been quarreling, threatening each other with unspeakable remarks, all over a crumpled frame. When both troops realized that the prisoner was alive, the fights errupted. And by the end of the night, the Watchers, watched no one.

Everything was so fuzzy...Frodo rubbed a bloodied finger across his brown, and picked roughly at his face. A light flow of blood began, trickling down his cheek, forming a puddle under his neck. He had no idea what was going on, and did only what he thought best, try to stand up. Slowly he raised his body, and immediately fell back to his knees. (What's wrong with me?) He could see nothing in the pitch black, so he began to massage his legs and his sides, working his way up to his arms, then his neck. He prodded lightly at the left side of his neck and jerked. There were two jagged cuts there, one next to the other. His skin was sore, tender, and seemed to have been weeping. (I wonder how old this is, is this why I can't walk?) Frodo was not frightened. He had no idea where he was, why he was there, or why it was so terribly cold. Then answer dawned on him suddenly. (I'm naked.) Panic raced through his veins as he groped at his chest. (Nothing.) He grasped frantically at the floor, finding nothing more than his pack, some crushed lembas, and his precious water bottle, slashed to tatters. (Nothing. No, no this isn't possible.) Frodo felt as though he'd been struck sharply in the abdomen. Everything began to spin again. He laid himself down on his stomach, trying to suck in some of the chill to relieve his increasing fever. Sweat poured from his face, and before he swooned he whispered, "Sam, where's Sam?"

When he awoke, a reek had filled the chamber and a large body was straddled over him. A large tong wrapped around Frodo's left side and its serrated rocks caught. It was immediately pulled back upwards and Frodo screamed as the orc, whip in hand, advanced for another shot. Just as he raised it, another head jumped up through the trap door and slammed the first orc against the wall.

"Shagrat! You fiend, what did I say about fun? We have a job to do."He turned and faced Frodo. "Hello my friend, and how do you fare this night?" 

Frodo still lie on the ground, and in a last burst of adrenaline he scurried from where he lay and curled into a ball, his arms flung over his head. The first orc cackled at his surrender and the second sat on his knees, inches away from Frodo. 

"It's alright, isn't it Shagrat? He put the whip away . And now, I have a few questions to ask you." Frodo looked up straight into the eyes of the orc. He began to shake, uncontrollably at first, but then his entire being was aware of its vibrations. The eyes of the orc were large, a piercing yellow, with little rivers of red sprouting from the iris. At the corner of its mouth was a dabble of saliva, and his breath smelt of rotting pork. Frodo did not take in his other features, other then that his voice was cruel. A malicious curling of syllables, with a constant mocking tone. He opened his mouth to speak again, and Frodo attempted to ingrain himself into the wall, as long as he could get away from the large, penetrating fangs. Question after question, hour after hour, the orc pried with his cold, blistered fingers into Frodo's soul, trying to dispense the truth. But it was all in vain. Frodo lied, lied in a wonderful and convincing manner, always tying every lie together. 

"Why were you past the stairs?"

"I was sent as a messenger, to inform the Lord or his next down that the Shire was willing to pay tribute to Mordor."

"And what would you send."

"Artisan goods. Weed, pottery, clothing, what metal weapons we have." He stuttered, adding to his performance. (You're frightened Frodo, innocent rat from the Shire. The have not seen the likes of you before, make it so they find you disgusting, so sweet, and terribly disgusting).

"An...anything."

"You're such a weak little maggot. Why would they send you?"

"Si..sir. I've been traveling for the last six months, two months ago my food supply was stolen by wolves, I've been living on what they gave me ever since."

"They?"

"Yes sir, the elves. Two archers found me stumbling outside Lorien and took pity on me, giving me rest and what traveler's provisions they had. " 

"And you're coat? It was such a pretty coat."

"A gift, from my uncle."

Frodo's captors looked oddly at one another, and then nodded. They seemed content with this answer.

"Did you know of any other travelers with you on the stairs eh? 

"Not that I know of sir."

Frodo continued to shake, but the adrenaline rushing through his body made his answers confident and believable. The orc stood grounded, not able to think of another question. It had been three and a half hours since that first whip had fallen. Frodo's mind was exhausted. Both of his captors left, and before his heart or head could digest what they said, there was a scream.

Frodo jumped back and gave an attempt to stand up, it worked, and he was able to look fretfully out the westward window. A great wind came, and its howl only added to the terror of what Frodo saw. Dozens of orcs were assembled in the courtyard, and a large pack of them had gathered around a dead comrade. Although comradery was not a staple of their profession. Frodo cringed as he saw his captors, the largest of the now over one hundred orcs assembled, bellow at one another. The surrounding orcs began to chant and scrap their feet against the rock, scattered at first and then rhythmically, scratch, scratch, stamp stamp. He could not understand what they were saying, although the words of the black tongue seared the ears of all who heard. (What is it they're arguing about?) He heard something he recognized.( Perinnath. It's me they want, of course they do Frodo. They want you dead and eaten, out of the way and out of their minds. But not before some "fun".) And as if all sanity was broken, the fighting erupted. A great clatter began. Metal crashed, arrows twanged, and victory yells were administered. Harsh, fierce voices they were ringing out over the mountains, creeping into the tunnel, reaching the now humbled ears of Her. The noise was horrible, and Frodo cupped his blood stained hands over his ears. He crawled as far as he could from the window and curled himself into a ball. And it went on, for hours, and there he lie, a shivering form, naked, beaten, raw, and the only survivor of the most irrelevant battle of the War of the Ring.

After what seemed like hours, the noises died, just like their origins. Frodo had fallen into a nightmare, believing that the metal crashed into his flesh, the blows, to his head. The silence actually woke him.

"Oooaauu," Frodo moaned. His entire body ached, from his head to his toes, all surged with pain; which in turn woke him far too abruptly. He sat himself up and looked around his chamber, and in doing so, remembered what had happened. A tray had been rammed against the wall, its contents scattered in the surrounding area. (They fed me? O...my head.) There was a new gash on his forehead, and a bruise across his thigh. (Who knows what happened while I slept. Slept? Ha.) He tried to laugh, which resulted in a fit of coughing which shook his entire body. He fell forward onto all fours, and continued to shudder. The cold was penetrating, seeping into his veins and chilling him to the core. He left what the orcs had brought where it lie, and curled into a ball. Frodo began to rub his legs back and forth, trying to circulate heat. Questions raced through his mind, and he begun to shake with fear, not cold.( What if they knew I was lying? If they have the...it, why would the question me in the first place? That would be pointless. They would've know I was lying. But...they didn't. They don't. Alright, those two don't have it, who does? Do one of their troops have it? Did they steal it? Is it lost?) Frodo shuddered at the image of his precious hanging loosely on the neck of one of the dead ocs, black blood soiling its golden crevices. There was such a hole now, an emptiness, as though not only was his back raw, but his chest was also, raw, torn and burning.( It's useless. No matter where it is, or who it's with, it's gone. Lost, always lost.) Frodo took no notice of his relation to Gollum in that comment, and ran his fingers roughly through his hair. 

(What to do.) Then his stomach began to growl, and roar, and churn like an angry mob. It seemed weeks in his mind since he has last eaten, when in truth it had only been a single day, a single, solitary day of pain. (Whatever scraps they gave me, I'm eating them.) He crawled over to the tray, only a few feet from where he sat, and looked at its contents, like a young hobbit lad surveying a crop field. To his surprise, he found some stale bread, a strip of salted beef, and a small cup, laden with water. Although muddied and brown, it was still water. (If it keeps me alive, just a few more hours, it's worth it. No, not it's hopeless, folly to believe that I could be found now. Oh Sam, you could be dead, lying carrion for the beasts of Mordor. I don't deserve to live, but I don't want to die here.) His hunger stifled his thoughts and for only a few minutes Frodo turned into a ravenous dog as he devoured the bits of food. He huddled over the tray defensively, one hand shielding it while the other ate. When every crumb had disappeared he lie back and stared at the ceiling. He cared not to look out the window, for it was deadly silent, and that is what he expected. Death had come to Cirith Ungol. The messengers had been sent long before the fighting, and now the silent voice of the dead hung in the air. 

  
  


It spoke to Frodo, begging him to end it all, to find peace in the darkness. The wind had ceased to whistle, the bushes had stopped their chatter, there was absolutely no sound. It was maddening, and Frodo wondered how sharp the tray was. Perhaps he could cut a vein, Bilbo had taught him where they were located. The one under his knee should suffice, if he could get it deep enough. The tray was in his hand, but then it involuntarily flew from him and crashed against the wall. It made such a sound that Frodo threw his hands over his ears once again, and began to rock back and forth, back and forth. But the silence was broken. A voice could be heard.

  
  


Sam leaned his back against the wall, and gravity methodically drew him downward. He put his head in his hands and gently began to cry. He could feel every beat of his heart as they seemed to whisper... (You've failed. It's over. He's dead Sam, and it's your fault.) "No! I refuse to believe you!" He cried audibly. His head had believed it once, but his heart had rebelled. And now both were together. (Sam, you've gotten so far, don't give up yet. Please.) A voice whispered, but it was not his own. Sam stretched his limp hand out in front of him, in vain. (Mr. Frodo.) But he saw nothing, or heard nothing, of his beloved master, just the flicker of torchlight. The rhythmic ripple and cracking of the fire continued, but it was slow extinguished, along with hope. Darkness fell on Sam's heart and he did not look up for some time. Sweat droplets danced on his face, mixing with blood and tears, a blend of color and beauty that would never be found again. (Think of something else Sam, there has to be another way.) So Sam began to sing. He thought of Merry and Pippin, and the Old Man Willow fiasco. And Tom, dear Tom, saving them from certain peril. (Such a lovely chap he was.) The tune came unbidden, and the words from his heart, though simple they were.

  
  


"Old Man Willow was a tree

Who whistled as he sang to me

He sang of mighty... wondrous things

Like roaring falls and evergreens!

He spoke of elvish things

And golden... rings

And how the wind will sadly sing

Then suddenly the mighty tree

Stopped whistling as he sang to me

He wrapped his arm around my leg

In wooden bark I begged and begged

To let me be and set me free

And let me see what he'd sung to me

Then magically, Old Tom was there

With eyes as golden as his hair

A twinkling in his crooked smile

He sat with Willow and talked awhile..."

  
  


He could not finish. Sam drew his hand across his cheek and caught his tears. He missed them so. Their laughter, such a pair they were, always cheerful. (To have a bit of cheer right now. I wonder if they miss us. ) But he continued to sing, another song this time. He rested his head back and tried to imagine Lorien, and its ethereal beauty, and Mr. Frodo. 

  
  


"When evening in the Shire was grey

His footsteps on the Hill were heard

Before the dawn he went away

On journey long without a word.."

  
  


And then his own words.

  
  


"The finest rockets ever seen

They burst in stars of blue and green 

Or after thunder golden showers

Came falling like a rain of flowers."

  
  


"Never was quite as good as Mr. Frodo's."

  
  


It was so hard to see him now, his eyes, his face, he could only remember fear. (This is the highest tower. They said he would be in the highest chamber, out of the way, out of my mind.) He heard a scream.( I have to see him. I have to find him.) "Mr. Frodo!"he cried. Sam again ran up the stairs and into the dark passageway. Blocked. Blocked as it had been the last four times he'd slammed his hand against it. (This is hopeless. ) Sam feared nothing now, neither death nor pain nor mutilation, as long as he ended his life next to his master. And to do that he would have to find him. He sat down again, on his knees, and crumpled down onto his back. He hummed to himself, a song long forgotten, which he had learned from Mr. Bilbo as a lad. In a sing song fashion he hummed, to only himself, no one else was there, no one could hear. He bid himself to sit up, and words came to the tune, beautiful, strong and resilient, a song that would be remembered for years to come.

  
  


"In Western lands beneath the Sun

The flowers may rise in spring

The trees may bud, the waters run

The merry finches sing

Or there may be 'tis cloudless night

And swaying beeches bear

The Elven stars as jewels white

Amid their branching hair

  
  


Though here at journey's end I lie

In darkness buried deep

Beyond all towers strong and high

Beyond all mountains steep

Above all shadows rides the Sun

And stars forever dwell

I will not say the day is done 

Or bid the stars farewell."

  
  


Tears had fallen by the third line and Sam was about to begin again when he thought he heard a faint voice repeating the words, over and over. 

  
  


Such a beautiful voice. Frodo in his delirium thought it sounded almost elven, as if a smaller, forgotten one had gone to think, by himself, and begun to sing. He could only catch snippets of words, but those he caught he answered with, answered to the voice, the voice that he was sure an allusion in his insufferable daydream.

  
  


"Above...all shadows rides...the Sun

And stars forever dwell

I will not say the day...is done.

Nor bid the stars..."

  
  


He was cut short.

  
  


"Ho la! You up there you dunghill rat! Stop your squeaking, or I'll come and deal with you. D'you hear?"

  
  


Sam heard a voice in the passage, its owner just out of sight from where he lay. It spoke again.

  
  


"All right, But I'll come and have a look at you all the same, and see what you're up to."

  
  


Then he heard it. A ladder was drug in from a doorway and steadied. A latch was unhooked, and heavy footsteps began to creak the ladder rungs. 

  
  


(Of course!) Sam cursed his own stupidity, and immediately crept toward the passageway. The orc had long since gone into the chamber, and Sam crouched low, listening intently.

  
  


He recognized this orc from the crowd he had seen from the window. It was smaller in stature and size, but terrifying in appearance. Frodo grimaced as the many ringed face advanced towards him. Frodo cowered and positioned himself under the window. But he was not aware of what was happening, in a sense. The world began to lose its shape, his chamber, its contour. Everything began to blur together into one melted darkness. Frodo remained silent, and simply sat there, his legs drawn up, his head bowed. Sleep was so close. Rest. He needed rest. Snaga had a large gash across his arm, and licked the wound as he stared at Frodo. He then reached into his cloak and pulled out a large leather whip. In the dim light Frodo was aware of Snaga, the heat from his hunchbacked body, his atrocious stench. 

  
  


And his voice. He had heard it underneath him, a low growl that turned into a snarling roar. It was so angry, so vindictive and spiteful, as though Snaga himself must take revenge on Frodo. What had he ever done? 

  
  


"You lie quiet, or you'll pay for it! You've not got long to live in peace, I guess; but if you want the fun to begin right now, keep your trap shut see? There's a reminder for you!"

  
  


The whip fell. Frodo dare not cry out. He had promised himself that he would not, no matter what became of him. He closed his eyes tightly and thought. (If I am to die, I shall not die a coward.) He felt the tongs strap around him once again, and bit his lip brutally. The whip was raised a second time, and as Frodo braced himself for another blow, it clattered to the ground. A shadowy figure had sprung from the trap door and cut the orcs arm off at the elbow. It howled in pain, and charged head first at the shadow. Frodo threw himself against the wall, not knowing if he would be next. The shadow threw another swing, but it went wide, and the orc tripped over the door itself and flew down the hole. In the light of the lamp, the shadow became distinguishable. It was a hobbit, little more then Frodo's own size, and it was crying.

It ran to Frodo, and in his own mind, Frodo waited for his life to end. A simple slit, that was all. Please, don't hurt me.

"Frodo! Mr. Frodo. It's me, it's your Sam. I've come!" The figure grasped both his shoulders and hugged him to his breast. Please, please. Frodo still pleaded. What? Sam! The relief was indescribable. A weight had been lifted from him, and for one blessed moment, the hole was filled. He looked at his friend, a halo of red light encircling his tear streamed face. Oh Sam. Please, please let this not be a dream. He could feel the warmth that surged from Sam's hands, and saw all too clearly the red liquid trickling from his wrist. And yet he did not believe.

  
  


"Am I still dreaming? But the other dreams were horrible." He muttered. He wanted to sleep so badly.

  
  


"You're not dreaming at all Master, it's real. It's me. I've come." Sam was sobbing, he could hear Frodo's heart beat, he hadn't lost him yet. 

  
  


Frodo reached out and touched Sam's cheek, felt the moisture of his tears, and there he was, Sam, his Sam, come to save him. It's not a dream.

  
  


" I can hardly believe it." He now grasped the back of Sam's neck. Out of darkness and danger, he'd come. Sam was there, he was finally safe. "There was an orc with a whip, and it turns into Sam! Then I wasn't dreaming after all when I heard that dinging down below, and I tried to answer? Was it you?"

  
  


Sam nodded his head happily. "It was indeed, Mr. Frodo. I'd given up hope, almost. I couldn't find you."

  
  


"Well you have now Sam, dear Sam." Frodo ly back in Sam's arms, which were just as cold as his own. Sam rubbed his hands up and down Frodo's arms, creating a bit of warmth. But Frodo needed no warmth to sleep, to be at peace. He only needed the reassurance that his guardian was there, his miracle, his Sam.

  
  


Frodo's breaths began to soften, and his muscles relaxed. He still held Sam's hand, but loosely now, his worn fingers and nails wrapped around Sam's.( I almost lost you Mr. Frodo. I almost broke my promise. But never again, no sir, never again.) Sam looked upon the face of his master, sleeping, immersed in dreams of light and peace, now that he was safe, and a solitary tear rolled down his cheek. It fell onto Frodo, just below his eyelid, and slowly did the same. It was the most beautiful sight Sam had ever seen.


End file.
